


Fifty Dollars and First Impressions

by pocky_slash



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Background Slash, Blind Date, F/F, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8754214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: Angel's not thrilled at the prospect of spending her Friday night on a blind date with her boss' rich boyfriend's sister, but for fifty bucks and a nice bottle of tequila, even baby-sitting Trust Fund Princess can be bearable. 
Then they meet. And suddenly, it's a lot more than bearable.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phalangine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/gifts).



> Happy Secret Mutant! I hope you enjoy this super gay pseudo-rom-com!

There's a bottle of really fucking good tequila on Angel's desk when she comes into work on Wednesday. There's no note, no card, but that doesn't matter--it could only be from one person anyway. 

When most people beg for a favor, it involves groveling and pleading and theatrical promises of compensation. Not Erik Lehnsherr. Begging is beneath him. He's a straight-to-the-point kind of dude, which is what makes him such a good boss. When she sees the tequila, she goes straight into Erik's office and sits in the chair across from his desk.

"I need a favor," he says flatly.

"Figured that much out," she says.

"I need you to go out with me on Friday night."

Angel's eyebrows very slowly rise up her forehead.

"You're gay," she says. "So am I."

"Not _with me_ with me," he says, as if she's an imbecile for not getting his meaning immediately. Not everything about him makes him a very good boss. "With me and Charles."

Angel frowns at him. He sighs as if she's taxing the very last of his energy.

"Hot Trust Fund," he mutters.

"Oh!" Angel says. It's not as if Erik has enough romantic prospects that she should be getting them confused. The dude is so picky he's almost celibate. "Brother, did you miss the part where I'm gay? I wouldn't want a three-way with your frigid ass even if I wasn't."

Erik pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling in frustration. This is usually the point where their volunteers and interns cower and scatter to avoid his wrath. Angel knows from wrath. Compared to some of the men she's dealt with since she discovered her powers and her mama kicked her out, Erik's nothing more than a pouting kitten.

"I need you to go out with me and Charles and Charles' sister," he says slowly through his teeth.

"If you gave me all the relevant information the first time, you wouldn't need to repeat it five times," she says. "Let me guess, you invited him out, he didn't realize it was a date and invited his sister along, and now you need someone to keep her busy so you can employ your German robot moves on him."

She can practically hear him grinding his teeth together. "Yes."

"And you're paying?" she asks. 

If he wasn't before, he knows he is now. "Yes."

"And in addition to paying for my meal or ticket or whatever the hell you have planned, you're slipping me an extra fifty for having to baby-sit Trust Fund Princess while you get with her brother?"

"I could fire you, you know," he says. He wouldn't last a day and he knows it. " _Fine_."

Angel gets up. "Email me the deets. I'll practice my best vapid white girl impression." She pauses at the door. "'Thank you, Angel, for saving my ass once again and getting me laid before my dick shrivels up from disuse.'"

" _Go._ "

Angel goes with a laugh, primarily because she knows that Erik will thank her later in his own way, probably by volunteering to wrangle the interns or sit at the sign-in desk for her shift. Far better than 'thank you' muttered between his teeth, but fuck if she doesn't get a kick out of seeing his face turn that color.

She heads back to her office, puts the tequila in her bag, and opens her email. She'll google the latest rich white girl news Friday morning, suffer through the most boring date of her life on Friday night, and spend Saturday afternoon getting shitfaced with Alex and Darwin on the roof of their building. Not a terrible weekend, really, and she can use that fifty bucks to order a few pizzas and pick up a case of Alex's shitty beer. And, hey, now she'll have a date to tell her auntie about the next time she calls and asks after Angel's love life. It's an all around win and more than worth putting up with a whiny rich white girl for a few hours.

* * *

Angel's eyeliner could kill a man and her lipstick is blood red. Her skirt is just a few centimeters away from "too short" and she gives up doing anything fancy with her hair after she gets distracted by a string of bitchy texts in one of her group chats. When she steps out of her office, Erik does a double-take.

"I thought you didn't give a shit about this date," he says.

"I don't," Angel says. "Doesn't mean I don't want to look good."

Erik gives her a look that she's dubbed 'women are strange creatures beyond my understanding' and gestures for her to follow him out of the youth center and onto the street. He's called an Uber, which is proof he wants this guy's dick super badly. Erik hates ride-sharing with a passion, but it's the fastest way to get fucking anywhere from the back corner of Brooklyn where their center has set up shop. He clearly doesn't want to leave timing to chance tonight.

"Do you have condoms?" she asks him as they settle in the back of the car. He nearly chokes. "What? I've been working with you five years and you've never gotten laid in all that time. I just wanna make sure you remember how all the parts work. I don't have any first hand experience, but I can do my best to walk you through it."

"I hate you," he says. Then, "And how would you know I haven't gotten laid in five years? I don't announce my personal life to the staff." The _unlike some people_ is implied, but Angel can't help it if she's dated some incredibly sexually gifted women over the past few years.

"Believe me," she says. "I would know. What the hell are we doing, anyway?"

"Some...gallery something," Erik says. He reaches into his pocket and grabs a postcard for a hipster art installation in the East Village. "One of his students has some stuff in it."

_The Mutant Perspective: New York as seen by homo superior_ is written on the card over a blurry photo of three-toed footprints on a snowy sidewalk. On the other side is the gallery address and a list of names that Angel doesn't expect to recognize. It looks like boring garbage, but there will probably be an open bar and little trays of pretentious appetizers. 

"You really, super badly want this guy's dick," Angel amends. 

"I can fire you," Erik says, as if he doesn't use that as a threat fifteen times a day. Angel ignores him and checks her lipstick in her reflection on the window. She's a little chilly, but it can't be helped. It's possible she purposely wore a backless shirt to show off her tattoos and her mutation. Sure, Trust Fund Princess' brother is a telepath, but that doesn't mean she's necessarily on board with physical mutations and Angel might as well be up front. If she freaks out, fifty bucks or no fifty bucks, Angel's on the train back to Brooklyn.

Their car inches across the bridge and then through the crowded Manhattan streets before Erik gets frustrated enough to say, "This is fine, this is _fine_ " and get out of the car three blocks early. He leads them down the bustling Friday night sidewalks and to a brightly lit gallery front. There are hipsters milling around outside, making overly loud comments about which pieces they think are overrated, probably because they can't get into the show. Erik, on the other hand, walks right up to the dude standing outside the door.

"Lehnsherr," he barks. It's sharp enough that the guy almost drops his clipboard.

"Right!" he squeaks. "Lehnsherr plus one." Angel waves at him. "Head right inside."

Inside is more hipsters and more weird art that probably has a deeper meaning about the futility of mutant life in the city, as if all of the pieces weren't done by kids rich enough to avoid the working world and dedicate their time to painting pictures in a big studio loft downtown. On the plus side, a waiter with a tray of champagne walks by and Angel grabs two glasses, handing one to Erik, who's scanning the crowd for Hot Trust Fund. Angel knows the second he sees him--his face goes soft and weird, a dopey expression that looks almost foreign on him.

Hot Trust Fund is in a far corner babbling at someone with vibrantly red hair and their back to Angel. He's got the same baby blue eyes and floppy hair and overly earnest expression that she remembers from the day he came into the center. He _beams_ when he sees Erik.

"Erik!" he chirps, pivoting his wheelchair a little to the side to face Erik more directly. "You came! And Ms. Salvadore, it's a pleasure to see you again!"

The redhead turns around and the first thing that strikes Angel is that, based on the look she's shooting Hot Trust Fund, this must be Trust Fund Princess. The second thing that strikes Angel is that she doesn't have to worry about Trust Fund Princess judging her physical mutation. The third thing that strikes Angel is that "rich white girl" was a factually inaccurate descriptor.

Trust Fund Princess has deep blue skin and bright yellow eyes. She's wearing a white shirt unbuttoned over a low cut white camisole, a black skirt so short it would be indecent without the leggings underneath, and a look so sharp it would gut a lesser man.

Good thing Angel is a woman.

"Raven," Hot Trust Fund continues, "this is Angel Salvadore. She works with Erik at the Mutant Youth Center in Brooklyn. Ms. Salvadore, this is my sister, Raven."

Angel's most charming smile is automatic. "Nice to meet you." She offers her hand. Trust Fund Princess takes it and squeezes it in greeting, her expression cool.

"Same to you," she says. She doesn't have the same British accent as her brother, which is potentially interesting. She holds Angel's hand and gaze for just a second too long and Angel reminds herself that just because Trust Fund Princess is hot doesn't mean that she's not still vapid. It _does_ mean that Angel is just desperate enough to go home with her, even if she's boring as hell. 

"Now that introductions have been made, we should really take a look around at the art!" Hot Trust Fund says, fucking earnest as always. Erik makes a pained face that he hides behind a forced smile. With Hot Trust Fund's gaze directed solely at Erik, Angel rolls her eyes and swallows a sigh. She's gonna need more champagne for this.

"I'm gonna need more champagne for this," Trust Fund Princess mutters quietly.

"What was that, Raven?" Hot Trust Fund whirls his gaze to Trust Fund Princess. There's just a hint of steel in his expression, a look of "if you spoil this for me I swear to fucking god."

"I said 'Yay, art,'" Trust Fund Princess says flatly. Hot Trust Fund looks pained and Angel isn't quick enough to swallow her snort of amusement. Trust Fund Princess looks at her with a lingering, considering frown of surprise.

"Now, Raven," Hot Trust Fund says, "not only does this show benefit a good cause, but we really should--"

"'Encourage young mutants developing talents unrelated to their gifts, so we can remind the world that mutants are so much more than how they look and what they can do and blah blah blah.'" Trust Fund Princess rolls her eyes. Hot Trust Fund looks pained and throws a panicked glance at Erik, as if he's afraid Erik's taken offense, as if Erik wouldn't much rather be watching a kaiju film and eating street tacos in his sweats.

"Raven, why don't you go find us some drinks?" Hot Trust Fund says pleadingly. 

And, much to her surprise, Angel finds herself saying, "I'll help!" of her own accord. She can't even play it off like she said it to give Erik alone time to cuddle up to Hot Trust Fund, it came out too quickly for that kind of logic. Erik can tell, too. She can feel him looking at her. She ignores it and offers an awkward smile to Trust Fund Princess, who shrugs and gestures towards the bar.

They maneuver their way through the sea of artists and hipsters. Trust Fund Princess' disdain mirrors her own, which could be a good thing or could mean she thinks she's too important to deal with plebeians peddling their art. The reach the bar and manage to snag some more champagne. Angel follows her lead--when she only grabs one flute, Angel assumes they're not bringing any back over to share.

Trust Fund Princess leads her to a quieter corner and leans against the wall with a sigh. Another point towards "is bored to tears by this phony shit," so Angel risks conversation. 

"You know my boss is desperate for your brother's dick, right?" A safe enough topic. 

Trust Fund Princess nearly chokes on her laughter. "Jesus, they need to get their shit together. Your boss is literally all my brother talks about. 'Erik's center is _so_ wonderful!' 'Erik emailed me the most _hilarious_ article this morning!' 'Erik's work is _so_ important!' If they don't fuck after this, I'm going to commit fratricide. Charles' work wife already outlawed Erik's name from their office, so I've gotten twice as much fawning this week."

"Guess I'm lucky that Erik isn't the fawning type," Angel says. "He is, however, the 'suffer through pretentious art gallery openings in hopes of getting laid' type." That one's a gamble, but Trust Fund Princess laughs.

"Right?" she says. "I'd be able to take a dozen blurry photographs of mutants playing hacky-sack in Central Park, too, if I didn't have a job." She amends, "Well, honestly, you've met my brother--I could quit my job and do it if I wanted to, but I have better things to do with my time."

Angel smiles despite herself. "Oh yeah, like what?"

"Talking to pretty girls at pretentious art gallery openings?" Trust Fund Princess says with a hopeful grin.

Angel grins right back. "Wanna ditch those assholes and get coffee?"

"Oh thank god, yes." And Angel follows Raven out of the gallery and back into the New York night.

* * *

An hour later and three blocks away, Angel and Raven are still ensconced in a beat up sofa at a hole-in-the-wall bar. Raven is telling a story, and Angel is totally listening, except she's also totally distracted by Raven's hands flitting this way and that as she talks. Her fingers wiggle in the air, and Angel is not nearly drunk enough to want those hands on her body as badly as she does right now.

"Your brother sounds like an asshole," Angel says when the story concludes. "Which I can say because I work with Erik."

"Is he always kind of a robot?" Raven asks. "I've only seen him one other time, when I was picking Charles up from work and they were getting out of a meeting."

"Kind of?" Angel says. "Over time he becomes a kind of endearing robot." Then, because maybe she's more drunk than she thought, she adds, "He's had a really fucked up life. Like, I give him shit, cause I love him, but boy's been through some shit."

Raven offers a sad half-smile. "Haven't we all?" she asked. The way she says it, Angel can tell she means it, can tell whatever she's been through is worse than not getting the new Porsche she wanted for Christmas or having to summer in the Hamptons instead of on the Vineyard. Angel puts her hand on Raven's knee to squeeze it in comforting solidarity.

Sure, she could have squeezed her arm, but Angel's drunk and Raven's hot and while Angel's sympathy is genuine, she's also pretty horny.

They're on the same page, though--Raven shifts on the sofa so Angel's hand slides further up her thigh. It's deliberate--it has to be--and Angel swallows hard and looks up at Raven. The corner of her mouth rises just a bit, curling into the start of a smirk. Angel slides her hand up further. 

"Do you like the Center?" Raven asks her, playing with Angel's hair with feigned casualness. 

"It's good work," she says honestly, shifting a little closer. Shit, she hopes Raven is a hair-puller. "I feel like I'm giving back to my community, you know? I manifested when I was thirteen--my mama kicked me out and I went through some shit. The Center found me eventually--Erik did, himself--and helped me get out of the messes I kept getting into. They helped me find my auntie, who'd been looking for me ever since my ma told her what she did. Got me back on my feet, back into school. Erik picked up the tuition that wasn't covered by scholarships, even. I owe the asshole a lot."

"Yeah," Raven says. "Charles and I--we're not biological siblings. My mom died when I was three or four and her mother didn't want me--didn't even know about me. She left me on the street. I was picked up by CPS after a few days, some neighborhood lady noticed me, and bounced around for almost a year. Charles was a few years older and we had the same Mutant Youth Counselor. We met and he decided to bring me home and--god only knows why Sharon agreed, but she did. It was a long time ago--I barely remember it, you know? But still." 

She twists Angel's hair around her finger. They're sitting very, very close.

"Yeah," Angel breathes.

"Anyway," Raven says.

"Yeah," Angel says.

Silence. Angel chances moving her fingers a little further up Raven's thigh. Raven exhales, a breathy little sigh, and then tugs Angel forward with a sharp pull of that curl of hair.

Raven tastes like champagne, because the "Trust Fund Princess" moniker wasn't completely off-base--girl has expensive tastes. She's picking up the tab, though, and Angel isn't complaining. She's not complaining about anything, really, Raven's hand buried in her hair, her other hand on Angel's hip, the way she's slid closer on the couch. Angel squeezes her thigh and she makes a short, aborted sound that Angel would like to explore in much greater detail. Maybe in the privacy of someone's bedroom.

They make out in the corner long enough that Angel loses track of time, loses track of everything except Raven's hands and mouth and the swift beat of her own heart, the way her chest is heaving with each breath. Raven is kissing her throat when she finally manages to say, "I live all the way in Brooklyn."

"I live with my brother uptown."

This time of night, with the construction delays and the number of times they'd have to change trains....

"Your place it is," Angel murmurs.

* * *

The next morning, Angel is mellow and quiet and a little bit sore in the best possible way. She's warm under the heaps of blankets on Raven's bed and shivers a little in embarrassed delight as she strokes her fingers across the arm that Raven has tucked around her waist. It's with the utmost regret that she inches her way out from under it to slip away and find the bathroom.

She throws on a robe hanging on the back of the door and ventures out into the swanky uptown apartment the Xavier siblings share. Everything is modern and messy and homey. She can tell exactly what design choices are Raven's and which are Charles'. It's weirdly charming.

And, speaking of things that are Charles', she nearly barrels right into Erik on her way to the bathroom.

They stand in the hallway staring at each other.

Erik's hair is standing on end. He has at least three hickeys that Angel can see underneath the borrowed robe that's far too short on him. He's also _smiling._ She knows her own hair is a wreck--because, yes, Raven is a hair-puller--and her make-up is smeared into dark circles under her eyes and smudgy red around her mouth.

"Well," Erik says. She can tell he's trying to look stern, but the smile keeps peeking through.

"That's how I know when you get laid," she tells him. He frowns in confusion and she points to his face.

"Oh," he says. Then he gives up on hiding the smile. "You're no better."

"Never said I was," Angel says, smiling sweetly at him and breaking the stand-off for the bathroom. "It's a good look on you!" she calls over her shoulder.

"I can fire you," Erik says to the closing door. 

She does her business and washes her hands and spends an extra second or two combing her hair and rubbing away some of her make-up, just to piss Erik off. Eventually, the siren song of Raven naked and waiting for her is too much and she relinquishes control of the bathroom.

"Finally," he mutters. As he brushes past her, though, he adds, "It's a good look on you, too."

"I know," she says. And then, before he can close the door, "You still owe me fifty bucks, though!"

She grins as she walks away from his indigent cursing and back to join Raven in bed.


End file.
